Morning mist wrapped the waves of Blackwater Bay in a silver shroud. The Cannibal's black flame traced a faint line high above, tinting the silver sails of House Velaryon with a strange luster.
The anchors of the United Fleet had been weighed last night. Now, a thousand sails unfurled like great beasts awakening in the wind.
The merman of White Harbor, heavy with morning dew. The bronze runic armor of the Vale, slick with sea fog. Rose petals from the Reach scattered on deck by the east wind, mixing with the frost on Westerlands plate armor.
It was the heaviest prelude before the declaration of war.
Daemon stood at the prow of the Blackfyre, gripping his sword hilt until it burned.
Gael hovered Dreamfyre beside him, her pale violet dress sweeping over the dragon-carved railings. She pointed toward the dais. "Father. They're here."
The royal barge cut through the fleet formation. King Jaehaerys's black robe billowed, his silver-white hair bound by a golden crown. The ruby on his scepter caught the rising sun like a burning ember.
Queen Alysanne held his arm. Silverwing circled above the barge, her breath hitting the water and raising a mist scented with lavender that overpowered the brine of the Narrow Sea.
Baelon followed, his crimson robe sweeping the gangplank. His hand rested on his dragon-pommel sword—the scabbard newly engraved last week with the likeness of Vhagar. Last night, he had told Daemon he would use this sword to turn the Triarchy's scorpions into scrap metal.
Daemon Targaryen was uncharacteristically solemn. Caraxes circled above him like a blood-red shadow. He clutched a flask of Arbor wine but didn't drink, staring toward the Stepstones with a rare sharpness in his eyes.
Corlys Velaryon stood in the crow's nest of the Sea Snake, his brass spyglass cold in his grip. He looked east, toward the waters where Triarchy pirates most often prowled—where a Velaryon merchant ship had been burned to a skeleton last year, its crew still lost at sea.
When the royal barge stopped in the open water between the Blackfyre and the Sea Snake, Jaehaerys waved away his attendants and ascended the temporary oak dais alone.
The platform was built from ship planks of the Seven Kingdoms—Northern oak, Vale bronze nails, Reach rosewood—each piece bearing a house sigil. The dull thud of his steps sounded like the heartbeat of the realm.
"My vassals. My warriors. My family." The Old King's voice needed no horn to pierce the mist, landing on every deck.
Vermithor let out a low rumble, spreading bronze wings to cast a shadow over the dais, making the King's figure even more striking in the morning light—a black stone weathered by fifty years of storms, yet stronger than ever.
"Do you remember what was carved on the prow of Aegon the Conqueror's ship when he first crossed Blackwater Bay?"
Jaehaerys raised his scepter toward the Stepstones. "It was the Three-Headed Dragon of our House. It was the future of the Iron Throne. It was every inch of land our ancestors held with fire and blood! And the Stepstones, since the Conquest, have been the gateway to this land—guarding our trade with the Summer Isles, guarding our fishermen in the Narrow Sea, guarding our children from hearing pirate horns in the night!"
His voice rose, and he slammed the scepter onto the dais, driving his fingernails into the wood until they bled. "But now! The silk merchants of the Triarchy use gold to feed pirates! The brothel keepers of Lys gamble with the bones of our fishermen! The Archon of Tyrosh drinks Reach wine at feasts while his Ironborn allies burn Lannisport to ash! Last spring, a twelve-year-old boy in Seagard was cleaved in two by a pirate axe trying to save his father's nets! Last summer, in the fires of Lannisport, Lord Farmman's youngest daughter became a shadow in the flames before she could even wear the velvet dress her mother sewed!"
A suppressed gasp ran through the crowd.
Lord Jason Mallister gripped his sword hilt until his knuckles turned white. Lord Farmman turned away, veins pulsing in his neck.
Daemon Targaryen threw his honey cake onto the deck. Caraxes, sensing his rage, roared, sending waves rolling. Scarlet flame traced an arc in the sky, illuminating the direction of the enemy.
"They say our dragons are old, our fleet scattered, our people afraid to hold a sword!" Jaehaerys sneered, his voice powerful. "But today I tell them—Targaryen dragons never bow to time! The fleet of Westeros gathers here like a wall of steel! And the people of Westeros never forget how to use a sword to defend their home!"
He turned, his gaze sweeping over Baelon, the Daemon brothers, and Corlys. Every word was a nail driven into the heart. "I declare Prince Baelon Targaryen, Hand of the King, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne, as Lord Admiral of the United Fleet! He will take Vhagar's fire and our trust to smash the scorpion lines of the Triarchy!"
Baelon stepped forward, crimson robe snapping in the wind. He bowed. "I will not fail."
Vhagar roared above him, green fire hitting the water around the dais, raising a spray that banished the mist.
"Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen!" Jaehaerys pointed his scepter at The Cannibal. "You will lead the Left Wing! Take your black dragon and tear open their flank! I know you have seen the bloodiest battlefields of the Vale, and defended common fishermen from Ironborn ships. Now, I ask you to defend the seas of all Westeros!"
Daemon gripped Blackfyre and vaulted onto The Cannibal.
The black dragon's claws touched the water, ripples reflecting the dragon brand on Daemon's shoulder, which now glowed faintly red. "Daemon Blackfyre obeys!"
Grey Ghost followed, pale scales gleaming, weaving around The Cannibal like a mobile perimeter.
"Daemon Targaryen!" The King turned to the other prince, eyes holding a mix of exasperation and hope. "You lead the Right Wing! Use Caraxes to cover the fire ships! I know you love mischief, but today, remember—you are a Prince of House Targaryen. Your fire belongs on enemy sails, not in the brothels of the Street of Silk!"
The Rogue Prince's smirk vanished. He leaped onto Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm's wings swept over the Golden Lion, fluttering Lord Tymond's banner. "Grandfather, rest assured! I will show the Triarchy that Caraxes's fire is hotter than their silk!"
Finally, Jaehaerys looked at Corlys with absolute trust. "Corlys Velaryon, my grandson-in-law. You know ships better than anyone on the seven seas. You are Vice Admiral. Guide our course, break their iron-hulled monsters! Your ships once carried you to the ends of the world; now, let them carry our people to retake the Stepstones!"
Corlys leaped from the crow's nest to the deck of the Sea Snake. The silver seahorse sail unfurled. "Your Grace, every current and shoal of the Narrow Sea is in my mind. The Triarchy's great ships will be useless scrap in my waters!"
Meleys circled above him, red fire brushing the silver sails in blessing.
"Now!" Jaehaerys raised his scepter, his voice piercing the bay. "I, Jaehaerys Targaryen the First, in the name of the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, declare war on the Triarchy! We will retake the Stepstones! Let there be no pirate blades in the waves of the Narrow Sea! Let our children hear only the low song of dragons in the night, not the screams of slaughter!"
Horns tore through the mist. A thousand sails filled with the east wind.
Velaryon silver ships moved first, like silver lightning.
Redwyne green sails followed, archers nocking arrows, green fletching cold in the light.
Lannister lions rode the waves, heavy infantry locking shields.
Northern longships brought the chill of the ice, Manderly mermen snapping in the wind.
Daemon on The Cannibal, Gael on Dreamfyre, Daemon Targaryen on Caraxes, Rhaenys on Meleys, Baelon on Vhagar, plus Vermithor, Silverwing, and Grey Ghost—eight dragons rose together. Their roars shook the waves and filled the sails.
Jaehaerys stood on the dais, watching the sails depart. Alysanne held his hand, her warmth grounding the weight of fifty years of rule and hope for her descendants.
"They will win," she whispered. Silverwing circled above her, lavender-scented mist mingling with distant dragonfire.
Jaehaerys nodded, watching the line of sails spanning the horizon. "They will. Because they are the True Dragons of Targaryen, the warriors of the Seven Kingdoms, and the guardians of this land."
The mist cleared completely. The morning sun dyed the fleet gold and crimson.
The Cannibal's black fire burned a path at the front, followed by the banners of the Seven Kingdoms like a flowing rainbow, heading for the Stepstones.
There lay scorpions and pirate blades, but also territory to reclaim and peace to protect.
The bells of the Red Keep rang on the east wind, mingling with dragon roars, snapping sails, and soldiers' shouts—a war song of Westeros echoing over the Narrow Sea.
On the eve of departure, Daemon found himself recalling the scene half a month ago when the fleet had fully assembled...